I was on my way to this dude's house on the Upper West Side that I sometimes see, he having texted me earlier today. As I walked fast through the tunnel connecting the L and the 1,2,3, trains, that long tunnel, I could feel the soreness in my throat and in my chest, could feel whatever this infection was and how large it was. I have been in a daze for weeks. I have not had my normal energy levels, have continued to have this persistent morphing throat infection for about three weeks now. I thought it was finally killed. I had been prescribed antibiotics about a week ago and it was feeling near gone until yesterday when something else came over body, something that feels like the flu. I felt like I was going to throw up, that I was using too much energy by walking so fast through this tunnel, trying my best to rush to this guy's house to meet him at the time I said I would.
On the way through this tunnel, I passed a man, homeless looking, advertising himself as a New York Times-published poet. I am not sure what that necessarily means as I don't think I've ever seen poetry printed in the newspaper, aside from a selection in a book review or something. I passed him and then near the end of the tunnel I passed this old Asian man who was playing a flute of some kind, a very traditional type of music. I hate flutes. I'm not sure why. The hatred is intense, near violent.
I rode uptown, reading and not reading from a magazine, pausing to think about various things, among them: the stupid seat designs of these older trains, how no one fits into these proscribed seats they have created of oranges and yellows, immediately identifying its creation time, some seventies aesthetic at work; Dan Fishback's "thirtynothing," which I saw last evening at Brooklyn Arts Exchange and which I gave passing thoughts to on the train, thinking about the difference between this incarnation and the portion of it I saw at Dixon Place a while ago, what it means to see a work evolve; Dave Eggers' Zeitoun, which I finished today, and which is a great book, though not necessarily great writing, Eggers muting his personal voice to write this near-journalistic account of this one family's horrific experiences in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina; about how fucked up America behaved during that time and how I had never really known the extent of the injustices committed to the incarcerated individuals during that time, how absolutely unconstitutional and fucked-up their treatment was; Europe and various plans for how I need to save up money in these next couple months; and Jared Hasselhoff naked, who I thought about to get me horny to see this dude, having been watching videos and looking at photos of him most of the morning pissing on his bandmate and pulling items with his penis.
At 96th Street, I exited the train and went to this man's apartment. I smoked a little weed with him, pissed in his mouth, came in his mouth, and then twisted his nipples until he came as well.
I then took a downtown train back to 14th Street, thinking about many of the same things, but doing so from a happier position, having a bit more money in my bank account at this moment and having just ejaculated. Also mixed into these thoughts were now ones concerning: the Continental Baths, which were referenced in an article in the magazine I was reading; 70s New York and sexuality in that time, a time before Internet and cellphones, what seems like a magical time that required more effort at human connection and more of it, wherein people couldn't look to their cellphones during conversations or plays or while alone at a bar, that we had to look at each other and engage; and the admonition to create a spreadsheet timetable when I got home to figure out my income, bills, and ability to save in the next couple months.
In that tunnel connecting the 1,2,3 trains to the L train that I walked through again as I made my way home, the old Asian man was still there playing his flute. The New York Times published poet was sitting on newspapers, sleeping.